Inexplicable
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Lestrade is confronted by an inexplicably happy Sherlock and wants to know why.  Set immediately following "Rain".  John/Sherlock established relationship.


Sherlock Holmes didn't bother with knocking, of course.

Lestrade raised his brown eyes to the consulting menace and glared when a thin file was dropped brusquely onto his desk with no consideration of the fact that he was in the middle of something, nor any hint of acknowledgement that his office was private. Then he frowned.

Sherlock was smiling.

Not the triumphant little I've-solved-this-and-you-couldn't smile he always wore when he did, in fact, manage to solve something the police could not. (And it should have been that smile, Lestrade thought – if he was dumping the file unceremoniously on the DI's desk, then it meant he was done, although somewhat later than expected.)

No, Sherlock was almost grinning. A real, bright smile, lighting up his grey eyes, tugging at the corners of his lips, seemingly unwilling to disappear in the way Lestrade had seen with people who were truly happy about something.

Happy?

Since when did happy apply to Sherlock?

Lestrade cast around mentally, trying to figure out what it could be. As far as he knew, there had been no unsolved and gruesome murders lately – and he _would_ know, because that was his job. They hadn't even heard much in the way of anything from Jim Moriarty lately, and Lestrade hoped they never would again, but didn't count on it. The man thought Sherlock was an equal, and was probably right, but he seemed to be laying low or out of the country.

_Maybe he'll just vanish altogether_, Lestrade thought, with no real conviction. _Maybe one of his criminal mates will get tired of him, and off him. Save us the trouble._

"Are you high?" he asked, settling on the one thing that made sense.

Sherlock snorted derisively and Lestrade reassessed it – probably not high. His eyes were too clear and too focused without having that odd hyper-focus that drugs like meth could provide. Although, with Sherlock, it could be difficult to tell, since he could look like that while stone cold sober.

"Am I high?" the consulting detective repeated. "I solve your ridiculous coded calligraphy case and you ask me if I'm high?" He gestured to the file with one hand, but the smile wasn't erased from his lips. He was still wearing his coat and scarf, but had dispensed with his gloves, and although Lestrade didn't see an umbrella, Sherlock didn't appear to be wet. Did he have some magical ability to avoid being affected by the rain? The storm that had started overnight had abated before moving into round two, and Lestrade was vaguely glad he wasn't a patrol officer, so he could hole up in his office and avoid the outdoors that day as much as possible.

"Don't be ridiculous, I left my umbrella in the stand," Sherlock said, doing that probable mind reading thing he did so well. "And no, I'm not reading your mind, I saw you looking for it in my hand, then against the wall of your office, Lestrade. Really, it's pouring down out there, why would I not have an umbrella?"

Lestrade just waved a hand, flipping open the file.

"I thought you'd have finished sooner," he commented.

"Other things to do," Sherlock said simply, slipping his hands into his pockets, looking relaxed.

Relaxed?

Sherlock Holmes _never_ look relaxed.

"What other things?" Lestrade demanded. If they had anything to do with why Sherlock seemed relaxed, he wanted to know.

"Inconsequential to your case," Sherlock replied and Lestrade knew he wasn't getting any answers. "Your victim is an older man, probably retired, but retired young because his writing is still even and consistent but shows time to practice. Not a professional, or you'd have found that in your enquiry, but a very well trained amateur. Also, he was right handed, but taught himself to write with his left hand. You see the faint smudging here? Not made by someone writing right handed, but taking great care with their left."

"Why would anyone do that?"

Sherlock shrugged, grey eyes still glittering – that was it, Lestrade thought. Glittering. Not gleaming, like they normally would with a case. It _was_ different, too. They were brighter.

"Possibly because he had the time and desire," Sherlock said. "As I said, likely retired fairly young. Given the precision of the writing and the code in which this was written, I suspect he was an air traffic controller. Much of the code is based on flight pattern data – not as simple a cipher it seemed initially but fairly easy to solve once I'd gauged the key. Also, most air traffic controllers retire in their early fifties, given the strain of the job. For a man whose entire life's responsibility entails ensuring that hundreds of people do not succumb to horrible, flaming deaths over populated areas, calligraphy seems like a reasonable hobby. It, too, requires fine attention to detail, patience, and practice, but has the added benefit of not involving terrific crashes if one mucks up."

"Ah," Lestrade said, for something to say.

"So a retired air traffic controller with a hobby for calligraphy. Shouldn't be too hard to pin down who he is now, yes?"

"Only _where_ he is. And who killed him, or at least abducted him."

Sherlock's lips twitched again and, again, Lestrade thought this had nothing to do with the case.

Sherlock simply smiled. Lestrade was having a hard time not staring, trying to piece together what was going on. Had the case been that interesting? He hadn't thought so, since there had been no body and therefore no reason for Sherlock to run about London like a madman – or like his normal self, Lestrade thought – but _something_ was tickling the detective's fancy.

"Once you've established who he is, however, it should be a simple matter to track down his murderer."

"Right," Lestrade sighed. Simple. Leave it to Sherlock to think that a murder was simple. But to his mind, as ridiculously intelligent as it was, a murder probably was quite simple, especially the kinds that didn't involve serial killers. Most murders, the ones born from passion, were fairly straightforward in their motivations, at least, if not at all in their effects.

Sherlock beamed at him.

This was disconcerting.

"Look, Sherlock – what the hell is going on?"

"What do you mean?"

Lestrade gestured vaguely at him.

"You seem – I don't know – chipper."

"And why shouldn't I?" Sherlock said, motioning at the file. "I've solved your cipher."

"Yes, and thank you," Lestrade replied with a sigh. "But–"

They were interrupted by a knock on the door and Lestrade repressed a sigh. There would go Sherlock's inexplicable good mood, he thought, as Sally Donovan leaned in, dark eyes flashing coolly over Sherlock's tall form, then darting momentarily to Lestrade.

"Hello, freak," she sighed.

"Hello, Sally," Sherlock said in the same amiable voice, giving her a real smile. At this, Lestrade almost started, staring up at the younger man. Donovan frowned slightly as well, shooting him a puzzled look.

"What's gotten into you, then?" she enquired.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, really? Grinning like a maniac and no snappy comebacks? You feeling all right?"

"Quite well, thank you. Why shouldn't I? It's a perfectly marvellous day."

"You're kidding, right? It's pissing it down out there!"

"Didn't say the weather was nice, did I?" Sherlock asked, but lacked the sharp note in his voice than Lestrade was used to hearing when he spoke to Donovan.

Donovan stared at him again and Lestrade shook his head.

"What is it, Sally?" he asked.

"Dimmock wants to see you about the Geralds and Martins case when you have a moment," she sighed.

"Right," Lestrade said, nodding. Sherlock was still watching Donovan amiably, which was making her glare all the more at him. "Tell him I'll be down shortly."

She nodded, casting Sherlock another glare for good measure, which he returned with another smile, even giving her a little wave as she closed the door, which Lestrade could see really pissed her off.

"You sure you're all right?" Lestrade demanded.

"Of course," Sherlock assured him. "No reason I shouldn't be, is there?"

"You tell me," Lestrade shot back. Sherlock only cocked an eyebrow maddeningly at him, that same smile still playing on his lips, lighting his eyes.

"You are far too paranoid for your own well being, Greg," Sherlock said, and Lestrade knew something was up, since Sherlock rarely used his first name.

"Product of the job," Lestrade said. "Sherlock–"

"Love to stay and chat, I really would, but so much to do," the consulting detective said, turning to leave. "And Dimmock is waiting, after all. Do ring when you've found the body, will you?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something else, then reconsidered. Whatever had gotten into Sherlock, he was not going to fess up to it, at least not immediately.

"Right, I will," Lestrade promised.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock said, grinning again, which Lestrade did not think he'd find less disconcerting the more it happened. "Then I shall see you soon."

He let himself out of the office, pulling out his phone as he went, the door clicking shut behind him. Lestrade wondered who he was calling or texting, and what kind of nonsense that poor person would have to put up with.

He looked over the file for a few minutes, giving himself some time to regroup, then glanced up, frowning at his phone.

Perhaps he should call John Watson?

But what was he going to say? Your flatmate seems unreasonably happy? Is this a problem?

Somehow, Lestrade doubted that "happy" was a valid medical symptom at all. Besides, if this mood kept up the doctor was bound to notice, being quite perceptive himself.

Inspiration hit him and he pulled up John's blog on his computer. It was an ideal way to keep up with what was going on in Sherlock's life – and, to some extent, in his head – without actually having to check up on him, which could be troublesome. Lestrade didn't really want to do another drugs bust on his flat and suspected he wouldn't find anything anyway. Somehow, John Watson's presence in his life had a stabilising effect, and if Sherlock was doing drugs, the doctor would likely pick up on it in a flash.

There was nothing new on the blog though, which was a let down. The latest post was two days old, and had nothing to do with any case or Sherlock or anything even in London. John had been wishing happy birthday to a friend still in Afghanistan, a fellow doctor whom Lestrade only knew through mentions on the blog. He had seen her name more than once in the comments and had seen a similar post this time last year.

He read through the comments now, but there was nothing from Sherlock. No surprise – the man couldn't know this Doctor Remsen, seeing as how she was still overseas, and Sherlock disdained anything he didn't consider important, which included most other people. The comments were mostly from other soldiers, current or former, and a couple of back-and-forth comments from John and Remsen herself.

He sighed, resolving to check the blog again later that day, to see if anything new had come up. In the meantime, he had to meet with Dimmock about the other DI's case, which was more complicated than anyone would have liked, and he had to get working on this missing amateur calligrapher and retired air traffic controller. He tidied away the file Sherlock had given him and went to meet with his counterpart.

* * *

It would be two weeks before he got the full story, and pretty much all in one go.

He'd seen Sherlock once in the intervening time, when they'd found the body, and the consulting detective had shown up at five in the morning on the scene, dragging a bedraggled and tired looking Doctor John Watson behind him. The fact that Sherlock didn't look at all tired or out of sorts was not surprising, nor was it surprising that John did. Sherlock apparently didn't sleep, but Lestrade knew that five am was an unreasonable hour for most people, so the fatigue in John's face and eyes did not take startle him. He was more than feeling it himself.

Sherlock had nearly skipped around the scene, then leaned over John and the body, spouting off deductions that left both other men floored, their brains trying to keep up at the early hour. John had made some statements about the cause and time of death, and Sherlock had stood, staring into the shadows of the alley before letting out a shout and taking chase. John and Lestrade had been almost immediately behind him, but the doctor had been waylaid not long in, catching his jumper on a nail or something. Lestrade had kept going, catching up with Sherlock, who'd caught the struggling young man and had him pinned to a wall.

Lestrade didn't bother thinking it was stupid for the murderer to come back to the scene and watch the police, especially not when the murderer was so young. Barely into his twenties. Only serial killers or people who killed once in pre-meditation for reasons that were not emotional were really meticulous. Not angry and scared young men who held grudges.

After that, Sherlock had all but towed John away, shouting back to Lestrade that he'd be needed to testify at the trial. He'd herded the sleepy doctor into a cab, as if they had somewhere better to be.

Lestrade wondered why he hadn't realised that they did.

He stared at John's blog now, almost uncertain if he could believe it. The post was frank and honest and tackled issues plainly that Lestrade would have questions about. Such as, yes, this was a surprise for John and no, he was not gay but no, he did not know entirely what to make of it, but yes, he was happy and yes, this is what he wanted. And that if anyone took issue with it, they could keep it to themselves and deal with it, because it was not John's problem.

He began to chuckle to himself, and then wondered what had taken them both so long. He'd always suspected something was going on, and had rather hoped for it at first, because Sherlock bloody well needed something precisely like this in his life. But it had been ten months since they'd moved in together, and John had had that girlfriend, and nothing seemed to be happening. Lestrade had eventually settled on being contented that Sherlock had a friend who actually held his own against the genius, without having to be a genius himself. John Watson had provided a measure of much-needed stability in Sherlock's life. And now was providing something more, it seemed.

When he heard a shout from Donovan and cursing from Anderson, he got up and locked his office door quickly, then returned to his desk. Lestrade logged into the comments section and wrote a small post, listening to the chaos from his officers outside.

_It's about bloody time, you two_._ You should hear Donovan and Anderson._

With a grin, he logged off, then let the moaning and swearing continue for a few minutes before going out and yelling at them that they still had work to do and if they wanted to waste their time, they were more than welcome to do so when not on the clock, but he wasn't paying them for nothing.

Then he went back into his office, locked it again, and grinned at the computer screen for awhile, wondering what was going to happen now, but not actually worrying about it for the first time when it came to Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
